Who Needs A Tiger?
by Sandiane Carter
Summary: "It would just be research for the case, Castle."
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This story is for Cartographical. Nobody loves season-one Castle and Beckett quite as much as Jessie ;).

**Disclaimer:** Not mineeeeee. I'm only doing this for fun.

* * *

He found her at the murder board, spikes in her short hair like she'd been running her hands through it all night.

"Get any sleep?" he asked, as nonchalant as he could. He'd gotten the hang of it now: he could show a little concern, but it had to be masked with indifference if he wanted her to answer at all.

She hummed noncommittally - that was a _no_ - and he saw the flash of relief in her eyes when she reached for the coffee he'd brought with him.

"I can't make sense of it," she admitted after she'd taken a sip, her lashes fluttering over her cheeks in pleasure. She was so damn hot, even exhausted and with no makeup on; it was ridiculous. "There's got to be an explanation, Castle, one tiny detail that I'm overlooking, but I-"

She trailed off, clearly frustrated, pinched the bridge of her nose with two fingers. His treacherous hand burned in his pocket, ached to curl around her neck, relieve some of the pressure that wound her shoulders, but she would never let him.

"Maybe we need to take a step back," he said instead, leaning against the desk, as close to her as he dared. "Maybe we should stop looking at the victim, focus on our killer instead."

She turned her eyes to him, a tired brown tinged with curiosity. "What do you mean?"

"Well, we've been assuming that he handcuffed her to the bed, killed her, and then opened the cuffs so he could take her body elsewhere. But if that's what happened - why did he stop? Why wouldn't he dump her somewhere nobody would find her, or at least somewhere where it wouldn't be so easy to ID her? I mean, come on. Her _apartment_?"

Beckett said nothing, but the press of her lips, the knit of her eyebrows were encouraging enough.

"What if-" Castle couldn't help pausing a second for dramatic effect, and her elbow was immediately at his ribs, nudging an unspoken threat. He had to smother his smile. "What if she was still alive when she got out of the handcuffs? What if the guy she had sex with wasn't the one who killed her? Maybe she was into that kinky stuff-"

"Castle." She was shaking her head at him, but he carried on.

"Yeah, I know, we've got all these statements saying she was a nice girl, always helpful, whatever. But people have hidden layers to them, Beckett - you know that as well as I do."

She still looked unconvinced. "If Clare had a boyfriend she was comfortable enough to have kinky sex with, don't you think she would have mentioned him to her friends? Don't you think some of the neighbors would actually know his face? It just doesn't add up. Everyone thought she was single."

"Well-" he tried to come up with a counter argument, but he couldn't deny that she had a point.

"Trust me, Castle. She might've been willing to let this guy tie her up, but whoever closed those handcuffs on her wrists - that's our murderer right there."

"Fine," he huffed with a sigh. "Then let me come back to my first question: why would he untie her just to leave her there?"

Beckett sunk her teeth into her bottom lip, pondered over that. "Maybe he heard a sound outside and he panicked."

"You'd think if he was the sort to panic, he'd have done so after strangling her, not after releasing her body in order to dump her somewhere."

"Yeah," she agreed absentmindedly, bringing the coffee cup to her lips again. She sipped and he had to look away from the graceful arc of her throat, her skin so pale in the precinct's lights.

_Focus, Castle. _He could tell the answer was out there, so close; he could almost smell it. If only-

"She got out of the cuffs by herself," he realized suddenly, Beckett's voice echoing his in a strange stereo. He looked at her and saw his own excitement reflected in her face, all that fatigue gone in a second.

But then she frowned, rubbed two fingers to her forehead. "Wait, no. Can't be. Ryan said they were identical to police cuffs, and you can't get out of those without keys-"

"Have you tried?"

She raised her eyebrows and he replayed the question in his head, found himself almost embarrassed. "I mean, I wasn't asking - I wouldn't - what you do on your personal time is none of my - have you?" he gasped finally, defeated by the vision that sneaked its way into his mind, Beckett's slim wrists enclosed in metal and the length of her nude body spread across someone's sheets. His. His sheets.

A sharp tug at his ear had his fantasy dissolving into nothing, and he lifted his hands in supplication. "Ow ow ow," he moaned, squirming to get away. "Beckett. Beckett please, that _hurts_-"

"Stop picturing me naked," she hissed, and he wondered how she could even _know._

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he whispered, as if all the heads in the bullpen weren't already turned to them. Thank god it was early; at least Ryan and Esposito weren't here to make fun of him.

Beckett finally released him and he soothed the sensitive shell of his ear with his fingers, swallowed his whine because it_ wasn't attractive._

"I haven't tried, if you must know," she said in a tone that barred further questioning. "But police cuffs, Castle. Do you really think the NYPD, or any other form of authority for that matter, would risk having criminals escape just because the shackles were faulty?"

Hm. He dropped his hand and started thinking again. Maybe their victim had unnaturally thin wrists that could slip out of handcuffs. Ugh, but they'd spent a good long time looking at that body, and neither had noticed anything. Well, maybe Clare'd found a way to twist her hands so that-

"You know what we need?" he said as he pushed himself off the desk, frustrated at his lack of believable theories. "We need to do research."

"Research." Beckett's voice was anything but friendly.

"Don't underestimate the power of research, Beckett. It's simple: I handcuff you to your bed, you try to free yourself, we figure out what happened. Seeing as we have absolutely no clue who our mysterious killer is, I say that's our best shot at understanding what Clare went through."

A strange little smile played on Kate's lips; for a split second he thought he'd actually convinced her. But then she came closer, brought her body a breath away from his, and he knew something was wrong - something-

"You think I'm gonna let you cuff me, Castle?"

Oh god, oh god, her voice. Her low, erotic, gorgeous voice was doing things to him, things that she would definitely not approve of, and he couldn't remember what oxygen was.

Her hand came up, wrapped slowly around the lapel of his jacket, and he thought _yes yes yes oh Kate-_

She pushed him away, smiling archly. "Think again."

* * *

There was none of that playfulness, none of that teasing smirk two days later, when Montgomery threatened to close the case for lack of tangible leads. Castle said nothing, kept a neutral silence, but when she came to him with her jaw set he couldn't help an inner smile.

"It would just be research for the case," she said.

He nodded.

"You will open the cuffs the moment I say so."

If he spoke she'd hear it all in his voice, how badly he wanted this, and she'd call it off. He nodded again.

"And if there's so much as an inappropriate touch, an inappropriate look, I'm kicking you out, Castle. I don't care about the mayor and the commissioner. You try to cop a feel, I will make your life so miserable that you will run out of here the first chance you get."

Oh, he believed her.

She gave him one last appraising look, must've been satisfied by what she saw, because she turned away to grab her jacket. "My place, half an hour," she said quietly. "Don't be late."

* * *

He had it under control. He came ready, prepared, determined to keep his eyes and hands to himself. He wouldn't touch her, wouldn't do anything to make her run; he would cuff her and uncuff her and look away when she tried to get out.

And get enough fantasy material for the next two hundred years.

With a grunt he pushed the thought away, took a deep breath before knocking at her door. She let him in with an easy, "Hey, Castle," graceful and confident as ever, like they did this every Friday. Like it was nothing special.

Like he wasn't walking into her apartment for the first time, intending to handcuff her to her bed. God.

No, no. He couldn't panic. He had this. All he needed to follow her lead, cool and smooth, and everything would be alright.

And it was, surprisingly. She didn't hesitate for one second, not when she grabbed the shackles from her drawer, not when she lay on her bed and asked him whether her position matched Clare. It helped, actually, the clinical conversation about their victim, both of them reminded of the reason they were doing this, and Castle only felt the faintest twitch at his crotch when he clicked the cuffs closed around her wrists.

Then he turned away.

Beckett joked about him not being able to handle it, but there was a genuine streak of relief in her voice that comforted him in his choice. The sounds were bad enough - hearing her gasp as she struggled, the way her breath kept catching in the most appealing way - and yeah, she was right. He couldn't handle it.

There was no reason he should torture himself with something she'd repeatedly told him he couldn't have.

He wasn't sure how much time passed, but she finally gave up and called out in frustration. "Castle, I can't get out. Gonna have to rethink that theory of yours."

_Ours_, he wanted to correct, because they'd had the same idea, but he kept his mouth shut.

"Well?" her voice came, a little impatient now. "You gonna leave me hanging all night?"

Oh, right. He spun on his feet and realized too late he was completely unprepared for the sight of Kate Beckett stretched out on her bed, her chest rising and falling from exertion, her hair so dark against the cream-colored pillow. Her t-shirt was rucked up, probably from all the squirming, and it uncovered a pale, attractive slash of stomach.

Shit.

He came closer, sat on the bed, unable to tear his eyes away from her skin. He saw the ripple of muscle in her abdomen, knew she had to be terribly uncomfortable - Beckett was definitely not one for relinquishing control - but she said nothing. Her feet were free: she could've kicked him off her bed, could've jabbed him into awareness. She did neither.

His hand lifted of its own accord, his fingers slowly unfurling, and then the warmth of her was at his palm, so soft and supple. Her stomach contracted and he could feel the core of steel underneath, how fit and resistant she was. He didn't know that he had ever been so turned on by a woman.

Still she kept silent, although he could feel her eyes burning into him. His pinky finger ventured under the waistband of her pants, easily slipping inside, and she made a sound - a sharp, breathy intake of air that had his body instantly responding.

Ah, damn it. He couldn't stop. He couldn't-

He slid his hand down, felt the edge of her panties, and his heart stilled in his chest. Whoa. Lace, Beckett? The material was deliciously rough under his fingertips, the contact so arousing; he pressed his palm into her and looked up at her small, held-up moan.

She was gorgeous. Her eyes were coals in her pale face, so dark and intense that he could feel their heat, her mouth half-open, her lips pink. She looked as if she was trying hard to gather herself - and failing.

Without thinking, he leaned over her exposed skin, pressed his mouth to the ridge of her hipbone.

Kate's body came up with a gasp, sharp and clear. The sound curled around his guts and want spilled inside him; he licked her slowly, savored the string of expletives falling from her lips.

"Oh fuck fuck fuck _Castle_," she rasped, so beautiful the way her voice broke over his name. He wasn't sure what her meaning was - _Castle, stop_ or_ Please do that again_ - but he chose the second one.

He slanted his mouth over her abdomen, pushing her t-shirt out of the way and stroking her sides with his fingers. Her body danced in the cove of his hands, all of her alive against him, and he wanted nothing more than to dive into her, deep, so deep he would never find his way out again.

* * *

It had been so long, so long and it felt _so good. _His lips wandered up, scorching her skin with every kiss and touch of his tongue; he reached her left breast and nipped at her through the thin fabric of her bra, made her eyes snap shut, a growl tremble in her throat.

It was embarrassing. The sounds he ripped from her, the dampness staining her underwear. She didn't want that smug asshole to think - it was only because she hadn't bothered with sex for a while, had been so busy with work. It wasn't-

"Fuck," she grunted again when his mouth opened wet and hot at her chest. His tongue swirled at her nipple, made her body arch; need simmered in her blood, the whole length of her so aware and _ready._

_Take off my damn clothes,_ she wanted to say, but it was Castle. _Castle. _It would never be a good idea.

She struggled to open her eyes, torn between the knowledge that she had to stop this and how very, very badly she wanted it. Him. His teeth grazed her collarbone, sending a wave of fresh arousal through her veins, and then his face was hovering above hers: the yearning in his eyes made a fist in her belly.

Oh.

He had never-

He'd never let her see before. He'd leered, and teased her, and made a hundred suggestive comments; he'd never actually looked at her like she was everything he wanted, like she held power over his heart.

Ah, damn it. That was the man she'd started to like, somewhere along the way, the man who shone with pride when he talked about his daughter and knew exactly how Kate liked her coffee. It made it so freaking hard to say no.

Made it impossible.

She lifted her head from the pillow and went for his mouth, ignored the strain in her shoulders as she suckled on his lower lip and pushed her tongue inside. He made a sound of pure need, a sweet little moan that she drank from him, and kissed her back, fierce and a little messy, his body settling heavy over hers.

When she was breathless and dizzy with the taste of him, he broke away and feathered his lips at her jaw, nuzzled hotly into her neck. "Kate," he said, and there was such relish, such devotion in his voice that her hips rocked against his without her consent, her wrists straining against the metal of the cuffs.

"Off," she growled, didn't even care. "Take my pants off - Castle-"

He snapped his head up, arousal bleeding dark into his eyes, and when he took too long to respond she parted her thighs wider, dug her foot into his calf.

"You get started already or you untie me, your choice," she managed to say before his mouth was on hers again, harsh and devastating. The press of his chest against hers, the slow roam of his hands on her bare skin drove her crazy; she pushed back with everything she had, teeth and tongue, wrapped her legs around his waist.

He gasped into her kiss, his body bucking wildly against hers, and she grinned, tightened her hold on him. "What are you doing to me," he groaned, and that was good, so good, knowing he was just as undone as she was. She pressed up into the hard length of him, couldn't disguise the hitch in her own breath; it didn't matter, not when he was panting twice as loud as she was.

She rolled her hips, found a slow rhythm that made her chest burn, her insides coil in anticipation. Castle's head was bowed over her neck, his lips at her pulse; she could only see the copper mess of his hair, feel the halted stream of words at her skin. Utterly incomprehensible, and hot as shit.

On the next stroke up Beckett threw her head back into the pillow, so irresistible the way her body wound with need. The pound of blood in her veins told her how close, how close she was, and all of that with her fucking clothes still on-

She hated him.

She closed her eyes tighter and tried to breathe through it, loosen up, but the sharp graze of his teeth startled her out of her concentration, a cry ripped out from her throat.

"You taste amazing," he hummed, his fingers hot at her sides as he slid down. And although a tiny part of her wanted to laugh at the corny words, she had to admit that they worked - they _worked_ - and she was so brittle with arousal it seemed she could break at the touch of his mouth.

His tongue circled around her navel, raised a whine she wasn't proud of, and then he was finally pushing her pants down her legs, chuckling when she contorted to help.

"So eager," he murmured, his eyes flashing pleasure.

She wiggled a leg free and set her foot flat against his open shirt, her heel brushing against his ribs. He arched an eyebrow, leaning forward experimentally, and she pressed back, kept him at a distance. His eyes danced to her flexed knee, maybe noting the muscles at play there, and burned even hotter when he brought them back to her face.

Good. She wanted it to be on her terms.

Her apartment, her bed. Her rules.

"Laugh at me again," she said calmly, "and I swear I'm knocking you out with my bare feet, Castle. Then I'll find a way out of those cuffs and take matters into my own hands."

He parted his mouth, but paused before any words made it out. He seemed to give up on talking then, simply sunk back onto his knees, and with no further prelude he lowered his head to the vee of her legs.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** This story is for Cartographical. Nobody loves season-one Castle and Beckett quite as much as Jessie ;).

**Disclaimer:** Not mineeeeee. I'm only doing this for fun.

* * *

The way she rose into him, the way she tasted.

The dark breathless call of his name. The sharp dig of her heel at his back.

The skin of her thigh, so soft, seem to remold itself under his seeking fingers, and Castle licked her leisurely, savoring the slightest tremors of her body.

He could do this all night.

He could do this forever.

"No - ah - Castle, no, _fuck_," she breathed, so determined even when she hovered at the edge. So controlling. And he loved her that way. "Castle-"

He felt the start of her surrender, coaxed the release out of her gently, thoroughly, never letting up although she swore and cursed and made threats at him. Mmm, Beckett was dirty when she came.

Loud, too.

He filed the information away.

* * *

He barely let her float down, catch her breath, before he was sliding into her.

Kate opened her mouth, a mewl stuck somewhere in her throat, struggled to look at him. Shit, it felt so good, so very very good; her body stretched and then closed like a fist, trapping him inside.

"Ahh," he grunted, fell onto his elbows on top of her. "Kate. God."

"Yeah," she agreed, hadn't meant to let it out like that. She arched her back, rocked her hips, and he layered a breathless kiss over her mouth, met her every move.

She didn't even feel the cuffs around her wrists. Only the tense thud of arousal, only-

"I wanna touch you," she moaned. It wasn't her voice; it couldn't possibly be her voice, be her words at all.

"Oh, yeah," he said, twisting a little as he sank back into her. She gasped and then felt the wet heat of his mouth at her breast, the sweet nip of his teeth. Her leg came up, squeezed his ass, and in retaliation he drove deeper into her, a wild rhythm that had her head swimming.

"Castle-"

Oh god, oh god, it was almost - she was almost-

"Stop, stop," she panted, and she couldn't believe he heard her - couldn't believe he _listened _to her. Very few men had.

"Kate?" His body thrummed against hers, held together by some kind of miracle; she closed her eyes again and relished it, the melted warmth of their skins, how heavy and solid he was.

Oh, yes. Yes. "Now," she said, her lips almost touching his. "Hard." She had no other words, but he didn't seem to need them. There was the nudge of his nose at her cheek, his hand curling around her knee to open her wider, and then he crashed into her with a force that had her crying out, her body pulsing sharp and unraveling, unraveling, unraveling, beautiful and infinite.

* * *

When the haze of pleasure started dissipating, color slowly returning to his vision, Castle couldn't keep from tensing up against her.

He was in Kate Beckett's bed, her body soft and bare underneath his; he should have felt at least a flicker of triumph, a tiny glimpse of pride. But instead there was just breathless, daunting apprehension.

What happened now?

He had never had so much at stake, never been so uncertain what his next move should be in a woman's bed. She'd wanted this as much as he had - she'd been so fierce and passionate, threatening him so he would move - but he didn't believe for one second that she would admit to that now.

No, she would push him away and pretend it'd never happened, and unless he played his cards extremely well, performed some sort of magic, she would never let him this close again.

He wanted to be this close again. He wanted it so much he didn't know what to do with the feeling.

Beckett let out a long breath that skittered along his neck, and he realized - _idiot_ - that despite all his care he was probably crushing her. He rolled off of her at once, shivering when their skins parted. Her eyes were closed, her cheeks a little flushed still, and his heart twisted at how stunning she was.

Right. Handcuffs, Rick.

He turned and reached for the key on the bedside table, rolled back to find her watching him. Her eyes slid up his body, dark and sensual, and whatever he'd expected - this wasn't it. Swallowing, he propped himself on an elbow, inserted the key into the tiny lock. The revealing click had barely registered with him that Beckett's arms were already snaking around his neck, lithe and loose, and he fell into her with a gasp.

"Hi," she husked with that entrancing smile, the cove of her body so warm and inviting even after what they'd just done.

"Hey," he said softly, couldn't resist stroking his fingers over the curve of her waist.

She hummed, lashes fluttering, and he couldn't help but wonder who was that woman in his arms. His Beckett was a brisk, clipped-jawed detective who never took crap from him or anybody. His Beckett was all sharp angles and determination, not this...boneless siren who seductively snuggled against his chest.

She brushed her lips to his, startling him again, and then she layered a rich, heady kiss onto his mouth, left him stunned and probably brain-damaged.

"Imma fall asleep," she slurred, dropping her hands to his chest. "Can you pull up the covers?"

He did as she asked, worked slowly to untangle the quilt from under them both, and he watched with a strange pang at his heart as she curled under the comforter like a small animal.

"Wake me up at six," she breathed, and then she was out.

He sat in her bed and stared at her, naked and speechless.

She wanted him to stay?

* * *

He barely slept, consciousness flickering in and out of him, the clutch of reality too strong for any dreams to come. After he'd spent two hours awake, certain he wouldn't get any more rest, he opened his eyes to an empty bed and the pale edge of morning light along the curtains.

He rolled over with a groan, his body so sluggish and reluctant, and Kate - _Beckett_ - Beckett was here, sitting in a comfortable-looking armchair with her knees up and a cup cradled in her hands. Looking at him.

Her face was pale in the dimness, her eyes deep pools that he couldn't read; she wasn't smiling, but she didn't look angry or cold either.

She looked - thoughtful.

He pushed himself up, the sheets sliding off him, and he felt even more at a disadvantage. She was awake; she was dressed, and ready, and he was...

Not even close.

"Careful," she said when he lifted a hand to comb his hair into shape. He arched an eyebrow, and she nodded at the bedside table on his right.

He looked down. There was a mug - a mug full of dark, swirling deliciousness.

"You made me coffee?" His voice came out raw and too much, open and vulnerable. He wished he could take the words back.

But Beckett said nothing, remained that quiet, intent version of herself that made him so nervous, so he propped his pillow against the headboard, sat up and reached for the coffee.

He burned his tongue on the hot liquid, of course, and swallowed hastily, felt the rich dark taste even through his numb mouth.

"Wow," he said, struck by the way her coffee resembled her - bitter at first, not much sweetness to it, but a flavor that unfurled layer after layer and revealed its secrets. She smirked at him, and with the way her hair flopped messily around her face, the worn sweater she had on - he wasn't sure she'd ever been sexier.

"See, Castle? _I _don't need an expensive, fancy machine to make good coffee."

There was some kind of meaning in there, a joke that was lost on his sleep-deprived brain. He tried to understand but soon gave up, devoted himself to the coffee instead.

He'd drunk half the cup, savoring each sip, when Kate spoke again.

"She couldn't have gotten out of the cuffs by herself."

Ah. And here they were, back to the one thing that had led them to her bed. The case.

"No," he agreed, wondering what to do. Play along or call her on her bluff, ask point blank, _what now_? Ah, who was he kidding. He'd never be brave enough to confront her. "So what do you think? Any new theories?"

She sighed and threw her head back, took a moment to think. He watched her shamelessly as he downed the rest of the coffee, the long line of her folded legs in those fitted pants, the pale column of her neck. He wanted to kiss her again, he realized, and he couldn't say he was surprised.

Kate Beckett wasn't the sort of woman that a one-night stand could get out of his system.

She was opening her mouth to speak when her phone rang sharply in the silence, making him startle and then hold on to the sheet. He saw the fleeting smirk on her face as she reached for the cell on the dresser, and tried not feel offended.

"Beckett," she said. She listened attentively to the person on the other end, her expression moving from neutral to intrigued to thrilled, and her eyes found his in something like elation. "Okay. Yeah. We'll be there. Thanks, Esposito."

"What did he-" Castle started, but before he could finish she'd picked up his pants and slammed them against his chest.

"Put your clothes on," she said, her voice vibrating with a new kind of energy. "Apparently our murderer has just turned himself in."

* * *

It was so simple, so sad a story that Castle almost wished the case had gone cold. Scott Matheson barely knew Clare Silver; they'd met online a few weeks ago, on a forum that brought together people longing for a more adventurous sex life. They'd clicked because they were both new to the site, both a little hesitant, a little ashamed, and they had arranged to meet a first time for coffee. Once reassured that neither was an old pervert sitting at home with their hand down their pants, they'd decided to up the ante: Scott would come to Clare's place the following week when they were both done with work, and they would try some…new things.

"I was always into whips and blindfolds, this kind of thing," Scott explained with his head down, barely audible even in the quiet interrogation room. "Clare was a little more…"

His voice trailed off. Beckett said, encouraging, "A little more-?"

"She was into rougher stuff," he answered, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "I didn't realize it at first, because she seemed like such a nice girl – and she was pretty, too, so it was strange to me that she'd be on that forum at all. But I wasn't complaining."

Course not, Castle thought, remembering the picture of their victim. Somebody like Clare would have been way out of Scott's league in any other circumstances.

"So what happened?" Beckett pushed when Scott fell silent again.

"She – she had me cuff her to the bed, which I was more than happy about. And then – when we were – you know, _doing it_ – she asked me to put my hands around her throat."

Whoa. Castle sat up in his chair, felt Kate's body stiffening in surprise next to his. "She _asked_ you to put your hands around her throat?"

Scott laced his fingers on the table, looked at the writer in despair. "Yeah, man. At first I was like, _no, come on –_ you see, that's really not my thing – but then she was so insistent, and she was so hot, and I figured, okay, I'll try it-"

"And you strangled her." Kate's voice had that sharp edge to it, going in for the kill, and Castle felt a surge of compassion for Scott, for Clare, for the life that was lost so stupidly and could never be recovered.

"It was an accident!" Scott's voice broke in anxiety. "I swear, I didn't mean to – she kept for more, more, more, and when I removed my hands she wasn't breathing."

"You could have called 911," Beckett pointed out, quiet and deadly.

"I did! I mean, I started to, but then I heard the ring on the other end and I thought, oh my god, what will my parents say-"

"So you left her there and ran like a coward."

"I didn't _mean_ to kill her! I barely knew her. I just – it was all a big mistake, and I got scared because I didn't want to spend my life in jail. Wouldn't you have been scared too?"

Beckett said nothing. Scott twitched helplessly.

"So why come forward now?" Castle pitched in. "It's been five days. Clearly the police weren't going to find you, or they already would have." He resolutely ignored the glare he could tell was coming from Kate's side. "You were safe. Isn't that what you wanted?"

The young man flopped into his chair miserably. "I kept seeing her face," he said. "When I went to work the next day, I kept seeing her face. The women I passed on the street, the girl who sells flowers in front of my office. They all suddenly looked like her. And then last night I had dinner with my parents and I thought of _her _parents and I…"

He'd started crying at some point, fat, unmanly tears rolling down his face, and he looked so utterly crushed that Castle searched his pockets for a tissue. It was obvious that Scott Matheson was not equipped to live with that sort of guilt.

When it became obvious that Scott wasn't going to stop crying anytime soon, Castle looked over at Beckett. She was staring at the young man with a stern, stoic face, although disgust shone in her dark eyes. "Scott Matheson," she said at last, standing up. "You are under arrest for the murder of Clare Silver."

"It was an accident!" Scott exclaimed, panic flashing across his face. "I told you – you have to believe me-"

"The jury will have to determine that," Kate said as she closed the handcuffs over the man's wrists. "Right now, we don't have any evidence to support your version. You have the right to remain silent-"

"Check her emails, you'll see! I had no reason to kill her – I barely knew her at all-"

"Everything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law," Kate went on, her face grim as she pulled him up from the chair. "You have the right to speak to an attorney…"

Castle stood and watched as she led Scott out of the room, mixed feelings tangled in his chest. He wished, fervently, that he could go back to waking up in Beckett's apartment: he would have done things differently then, would have lured her back into the sheets and kept her from answering her phone, and they would have spent the day in bed, laughing and making love and blissfully ignoring the very existence of Scott Matheson.

* * *

She could feel Castle's eyes on her as she layered photos over case file, dropped everything into the cardboard box. Anger made her stiff, her gestures too controlled, and he was so annoyingly observant that she was certain he could tell.

"Go home, Castle," she said, too tired to be nice. "Case is closed. Go be with your daughter."

He didn't answer, didn't look like he was moving either. Stupid man. He had a beautiful daughter whom he adored and who obviously adored him back; who knew when that would be snatched away from him? Who knew-

"You were a little hard on Scott in there," he commented softly. Kate's fingers clenched on the box's lid.

"Yeah, well, someone had to," she replied shortly. "He killed that girl - he should know there are consequences." She turned to the murder board so she wouldn't have to look at Castle's face, but it was already wiped clean. She exhaled slowly.

"You arrested him for murder. Don't you think that's consequence enough?"

She closed her eyes briefly. "No jury is going to convict him," she said, heard how bitter she sounded. "You saw his face; you heard him moan and cry-"

"Seemed genuine to me," Castle opposed. "I'd say it really was an accident."

"What does it matter?" She spun back to him, her chest tight with it. "He _killed somebody,_ Castle. Someone's daughter. And he wasn't the one who got to stand in front of Clare's parents and tell them they'd never see her again. He wasn't the one to watch them sag down with grief and age ten years in five minutes. I was."

The writer looked at her, sorrowful and yet resolute. "He didn't _mean_ to kill her. And I know it's awful, I know it's terrible, but sometimes tragedies just happen, Beckett."

He didn't understand. "Would you be satisfied with that?" she asked recklessly. "If it was Alexis lying dead on that table, would you say _sometimes tragedies just happen_?"

He flinched, his whole body recoiling at her words, and suddenly the fight drained out of her, left only endless exhaustion in its place.

"Go home," she said again, gentler this time. She reached for him, her arm bridging the gap between them, and she squeezed his elbow until his resistance melted. "I'm gonna do the same."

Oh, yes. Home and a bath, the oblivion of a book and a glass of wine.

"Really?" He looked thoroughly unconvinced, and she realized in a flash of surprise that it was maybe the reason why he was so reluctant to leave. He thought she'd pull an all-nighter, find another case to work on.

It was sort of...sweet.

"Really," she insisted, grabbed her coat to show him. "Come on. I'll walk you out. Don't want Montgomery to lecture me again when he finds you sleeping in the break room."

He almost smiled; it was a close thing. His eyes lightened and his lips twitched, and for a moment she forgot to breathe, her heart in her mouth and her feet glued to the floor until she remembered to follow.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** This story is for Cartographical. Nobody loves season-one Castle and Beckett quite as much as Jessie ;).

**Disclaimer:** Not mineeeeee. I'm only doing this for fun.

* * *

He went home.

What else could he do? She escorted him out of the precinct and saw him into a cab, her fingers brushing lightly at her elbow in a parting gesture that silenced all the words clamoring in his chest. And if she'd been cold and distant, if she'd snapped at him, maybe then he would've had the guts to stand up for himself, tell her what the previous night meant to him. But he was made helpless by this new version of Beckett, the soft touches and knowing eyes that seemed to say, _Just give me time, _and before he knew it he was standing at the door of his loft.

Alone.

Shaking his head against the strange longing that was so unlike him, Castle took a deep breath and pushed the key into the lock, was welcomed home by the bright, mocking voice of his daughter.

"The prodigal father returns at last," she said, even though he'd texted her the previous night that he'd be working late on the case and might not come home at all. "Detective Beckett finally got tired of you?"

He stared at her blankly, his heart stuttering in his chest, until his tired brain caught on to her meaning. Sending him home – Alexis was only alluding to Beckett sending him home, not – not-

Nothing else.

"What's wrong?" His too-perceptive daughter knitted her brow and sauntered off her stool, came closer. "Did something happen at the precinct?"

Not _at _the precinct, technically. He opened his mouth, hesitated, and of course Alexis interpreted his lack of answer correctly. "Did something happen with Beckett?" she asked, curious and – he wasn't sure, but it sounded almost hopeful.

Oh, god. It was like he'd meant to keep it a secret, but… Okay, maybe he had. Just for a little while. Just until he knew exactly where things stood.

"Alexis," he hedged, rubbing a hand down his face. Damn. He sucked when it came to lying to his daughter. "Ah. No. Yes. Maybe?" Great. Just _great_, Rick.

"_Maybe_?" she repeated, laughing at him, but even through her amusement he could hear lively, genuine enthusiasm. Uh-oh. He had not realized Alexis liked Beckett so much. "Dad, come on. If something happened, you should be the first to know about it." She blushed a little as she said it, but she didn't back down; he didn't remember the last time his daughter had been so interested in his love life. Usually she just – looked the other way.

"Fine. Something happened," he said, making it clear that he wasn't going to say anything more about it. This was quickly entering the _awkward _territory, and Alexis, for all her maturity and awareness, was only fifteen.

He shrugged off his coat and threw it over the back of the couch, toed off his shoes. The loft smelled great; tomato, he thought, and some kind of meat – maybe chicken? He could see from where he was standing that the oven was still on. "What'd you make?" he asked, his stomach grumbling in approval.

Alexis followed him into the kitchen, and he could tell from the time it took her to answer that she was looking for a way to bring the conversation back to Beckett. "Stuffed tomatoes," she said. Mm, not chicken then. Pork meat. "And there's rice in the cooker. I made more so we'd have leftovers, but if you wanted to invite Detective-"

"Alexis," he warned.

Her cheeks turned a vivid red; her hair fell like a curtain across her face when she looked down at her feet. She was still his little girl, even at fifteen, and he couldn't help the surge of affection that made him tug her into his chest.

"I don't know what's happening with Beckett, Pumpkin. It might be nothing at all – it's hard to tell right now. And it's great that you're so thrilled about the idea, but don't get your hopes up, okay?" He realized as he said the words that he'd spent the whole day telling himself that. _Don't get your hopes up._

"I just think she'd be good for you," Alexis said softly, her cheek pressed to his chest.

Yeah. That was the problem.

He thought Kate Beckett would be good for him too.

* * *

He tried watching TV for a while, but he couldn't bring himself to pay attention: his thoughts kept wandering back to Beckett, to that poor woman who had died trying to make her fantasies come to life. He stood up and grabbed a book, changed his mind, sat down at his computer. The words wouldn't come. He gave up after ten minutes, opened Youtube instead, looking for funny videos. They made for a good distraction – people falling would always make him laugh – but as soon he stopped, the restlessness crashed over him again, pushed him out of his chair.

He wouldn't go to her apartment. He would _not_ go to her apartment.

He would just – go to bed early. Yes. Get some quality sleep, go back to the precinct fresh and rested in the morning.

So he changed and brushed his teeth and stared at himself in the mirror, more nervous than he'd been in years. What did Beckett see when she looked at him? He knew he was attractive, yes – enough women had told him so, each in their own way – but he wasn't the classic type either, didn't have a square jaw or a prominent chin dimple-

Jeez, he was ridiculous.

_To bed with you, _he thought, but once he lay in the dark with his eyes open, the sounds from the street echoing in the silence, there was nothing to keep his mind from traveling over and over to the previous night, the way Beckett had looked at him, how she'd tasted on his tongue.

He'd never get any sleep.

With a sigh he rolled over, reached for the phone on his bedside table. He curled his fingers around it, his thumb hovering over the screen; the thought of calling her was enough to make his heart pound.

And what would he say, huh? _Hey, Beckett, I couldn't sleep and I was thinking of you…_ Pathetic. He closed his eyes and dropped the phone next to his pillow, willed his body to sleep.

No such luck.

Outside a car honked, followed by an indistinct tangle of voices; they must have been really loud, he reflected, for him to hear them at all. Suddenly he yearned for it, the noisy bustle of people, the anonymity of New York's streets at night; before he could think it over he was already out of bed, throwing on haphazard clothes, grabbing his keys and his phone. His mother was out somewhere – something to do with her new play, he thought – and Alexis, reasonable as she was, had long deserted the living room. There was nobody to stop him, no one to justify to, and he savored the taste of freedom as he jogged down the stairs, walked out into the moonless night.

* * *

When he raised his eyes and Beckett's building stood in front of him, the brick almost yellow in the city lights, he couldn't say he was surprised.

He paused at the corner, shaking his head when a boy who couldn't be more than sixteen asked him for a lighter, and counted the windows. One, two, three, four.

Ah.

Her lights were still on.

* * *

Her phone buzzed.

Kate glanced up from her book and winced, slowly worked the muscles in her neck as she considered whether or not she wanted to stretch, reach out her arm to the bedside table. It demanded effort, and she was tired, and if it were the precinct they would've called-

Oh.

She curled her bottom lip between her teeth, dropped the hand she had pressed to her nape.

Castle.

She rolled over, propping herself on her elbow, and she grabbed the phone.

_I'm outside your place._

Ah. She closed her eyes briefly, considered ignoring him. For all he knew, she could've fallen asleep with the light still on; her phone was on silent anyway and it wouldn't have woken her.

If she'd been asleep. Which she wasn't.

She looked at his text again. It was surprisingly sober for Castle: no joke, none of those awful nicknames that made her want to break his arm, no cute entreaty for her to let him in. Only that one plain fact.

He was outside her place.

She sighed, ran a hand through her hair. She was going to regret this.

_Come up,_ she sent.

* * *

He hadn't really expected her to reply; he startled so badly when the phone chimed that he nearly dropped it to the ground. Then he stared in disbelief at the two words on his screen.

Come up.

Seriously?

He hesitated, then felt like a moron for standing there even two seconds when she'd invited him up. To her place. For the second time. He ran across the street without looking, nearly got hit by a car in the process, and stood breathless at her door. There was a list of names by the intercom; he roughly remembered where hers was, but before he could find it again the door had already slid open with a click.

Huh. She'd buzzed him in before he could even dial her apartment number. He grinned to himself as he let himself in, pushed the door closed.

Real cute, Beckett.

* * *

Kate released the intercom button, reached for the door handle. There was no point in pretending: she'd thought he might show up, although she hadn't expected for it to take so long. She had vaguely considered going over to the loft herself, hours before, when she'd stood alone in the silence of her apartment – but the prospect of running into his daughter, of having to explain, had sobered her quickly.

She leaned against the open door and listened to the sound of his footsteps echoing in the staircase.

Richard Castle.

* * *

He saw the door open and slowed down, panic suddenly rushing back into him. He didn't know what to say to her; he would make a fool of himself; she would turn him away before he even-

He forced himself to move. Kate was standing with her back to the door, and her short hair seemed raven black in the dimness, her skin so pale and delicate. She was wearing an oversized t-shirt and a pair of jeans: she looked like she'd meant to get dressed for him and given up halfway. It curled in his chest, warm and tight, the idea that she was maybe comfortable enough around him to appear bra-less in her sleeping clothes.

They looked at each other for a long moment. Castle stood immobile on her doorstep, struggled to find his breath, and for some reason this felt like the most honest they'd ever been with each other.

"Hey," she said at last, so anticlimactic that he couldn't help a smile.

"Hey," he said back, stepping in close, pushing his luck. "Can I come in?"

She made a little wave with her hand he took to be a yes, and he walked into her apartment with the same breathless wonder as the night before. But this time she didn't head for her bedroom after closing the door – she sank gracefully into her couch, _neutral ground_, and he took the opposite seat.

Bad move, he realized immediately, wincing inside. He was too far away; he'd never convince her like this, the coffee table standing between them like an impenetrable wall. He needed to touch her, coax her body into believing he was serious about them. Kate Beckett didn't trust his words, did she?

He opened his mouth, found her dark eyes resting on him. Waiting.

_Show no fear_, he reminded himself_. _"So," he said, conversational. "You like being tied up." Her face betrayed nothing, remained that cool mask she used in interrogations. His insides clenched. "Any other…kink that I should know about?" Despite his best efforts, his voice wavered at the end of the sentence.

He wasn't sure, but he thought he could see her lips twitch for a second.

When she spoke, it was slow and deliberate. "You asking if I like to be choked during sex, Castle?"

He was suddenly glad she hadn't offered him a drink – otherwise he might have sputtered it out. As it was, he stammered some indistinct answer, felt the flush in his cheeks and hated her a little for the ways she could get to him.

The smile was definitely there now, dancing in her eyes, her raised eyebrows.

"I'm just saying," he answered at last, clutching the remains of his dignity, "that it would be nice to have a little warning. Know what to expect."

She looked away, her fingers tracing thoughtful whirls over the arm of the couch, and he wondered if he'd gone too far. But it was the only way he knew with her – if he didn't push, if he didn't ask for things, then Beckett would never give them to him.

And he wanted things. Wanted her.

"I don't know," she said, finally breaking the silence. "I think sometimes it's fun to be left…in the dark." She cast an arch look at him, and he swallowed, his body tightening. Did she mean – blindfolded?

"Fun," he echoed moronically, her smirking mouth so alluring. God, how he wanted her.

She hummed, and it was the last straw. He was on his feet, contouring the coffee table before he'd even thought about it; Kate sat up, her shoulders stiffening, but he didn't touch her. Yet.

He simply dropped onto the couch next to her, within touching – _kissing_ – distance, and searched inside him for his most earnest face. "Kate."

He so rarely used her first name, but he liked the way it caught her attention, turned her clear focused face to him. She was still wary of him, so guarded; it shone in her eyes behind the sexy confidence.

"I don't want last night to be a mistake," he said, choosing his words carefully. "It wasn't, and I don't want to pretend like it was." She remained quiet, but she was listening. "And I don't care if you like to be choked, or blindfolded or spanked. All I want is a chance to find out."

Her throat worked and she pressed her lips together; he yearned to touch her skin.

"I'm gonna have to kiss you now," he warned seriously, and her beautiful, expressive eyes flicked up to his, flashing surprise, then amusement, then acceptance.

_Affection_, he thought boldly, and maybe he was right.

"If you have to," she said.


End file.
